Hey, who’s gonna sit by you?

So like ten gagillion other individuals out there, I take public transit to and from work every day.

I may sometimes begrudge this fact (say, on an extraordinarily rainy morning, or anytime some tactless fool lets out an absolute whopper of a fart), but for the most part, I am a-okay with my status as slave to the skytrain gods.

I like to sum it up thusly: I love riding the metro ninety-eight per cent of the time. The other two per cent I’m all THE SKYTRAIN IS BROKE I BLOODY-WELL HATE THIS NONSENSE AND ALL YOU BUMS DULLARDS AND HACKS WHO TAKE MY SEATS AND TALK TOO LOUDLY ON YOUR MOBILE PHONES CAN GET THE HECK OUT.


So, in this vein, (and as a somewhat sequel – or is it prequel? Ridley Scott Promethequel?) to my “Things I think about when I run”), may I present to you – dear readers:

Things I think about when I ride Skytrain.

Pleeeeeeaaaaase let me get a seat.

[Doors open.]


SUCCESS!!! Muahahahaha. I AM SITTING! Which means I am soon to be READING!

I get so much reading done on skytrain. I should just ride skytrain all day long.

Reeeeeaaaaaad. Readreadreadreadreadreadreadreadreadreadread.

Shit, we’re here all ready?

Nope. Keep reading.



Ewan MacGregor is SO hot.

What am I going to eat for lunch today?

I should really start eating breakfast.

I like that guy’s suit.

Oh no! Who is listening to Last Christmas? It’ll be in my head for years!! ESCAPE!!!

I probably won’t ever stop pronouncing escape “ess-cap-eh”.

P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney.

I should re-watch that film. It’s so good.

But seriously though, Last Christmas has got to be an organ donor’s absolute worst nightmare.

Ack. I almost drooled.

I’m only twenty-seven and I drool A LOT. Is this like a thing? Should I get myself checked out? How would one test for drool?

Look at that sunrise. It’s like the most beautiful bruise in the world.

I would know. I get so many bruises I’m like a lava-lamp in human form.

Too weird.

Even for you Ethel.

Eh. Whatevs.

I want to go for a run.

I want to bake mint chocolate chip brownies.

I want to eat mint chocolate chip brownies.

I want that two hundred and fifty dollar Club Monaco dress.

I want to make out with Ewan MacGregor.

I want to watch Daniel Craig make out with Javier Bardem.

You can’t always get what you want Ethel.

But if you try sometime, you just might find – you get what you need.


Man, that is such a good song.

Hmmmm. That teenager has been making eyes at me for the last twenty minutes. Better get ready to let him down easy.

Also, the guy sitting next to me has his legs spread so wide you would think his crotch is on fire. I mean, could he take up any more of my space?


Hello cologne!

(We’re not talking the city in Germany here folks…)


I am definitely the funniest person in the world.


You can leave your hat on

What might have been said (in but another time, and perhaps another place):

When he slid into the seat one row over from her own, he also blocked her window.  It wasn’t that Linda frequently found her speedy postcard of Vancouver and Environs all that interesting, but now scrutiny of her fellow passengers was no longer possible.

Well then, nothing to do but inspect her workworn feet and check on the increasingly alarming progress of callus A-10 -so named for its location on her left pinky toe, and its growing resemblance to Atlas the Titan.  Nearby, B-9 and S-9 (Bugsy and Skittles) continued their mediocre existence, jutting symmetrically and aggressively off of respective knuckles, almost pathetic in their uniformity.  Atlas, meanwhile, had made impressive progress this week, angrily burrowing against the worn brown strap of her flipflops, his broadening shoulders tapering into a tiny head-like knot.

“You have beautiful feet.”

An alarming statement considering the circumstances.

Linda turned an appropriately cool glare onto the beaming visage of Window Blocker (or WB), his boiled-turnip complexion currently accentuated by the broad gleam of his “pearlies.”

A real meathead, she decided.

No man with integrity would wear a white polo in this heat and not sweat.  Thankfully, no question had been asked.  She resumed her rigid concentration on the floor in front of her.

“How about going for a walk later?”  This time she looked up quickly.

Who did this guy think he was? WB had moved straight from inconvenient jerk category directly into “creeper” category – in less than two sentences no less!  Linda, stroking the rugose jacket covering the business end of her steel toe boots (that sat on the seat next to her), spoke loudly.

“No, dirtbag, and save your asshat overtures for your immediate relations.”

A well dressed sikh man turned slightly at this and asshat had the good grace to flush and retreat.

“Sorry.” Linda mouthed to the well-dressed man.

“Don’t be,” he replied. “Nobody likes an asshat.”

Don’t stand. Don’t stand so close to me.

So after all that writing about tofu, I realized I had a great desire to wok and roll. Indeed folks, the time was nigh to whip up a classic tofu stir-fry for Mr. M and I.

It’s been such a crazy start to the week – in fact, I cannot believe that today is only Tuesday – and I wanted something healthy, and tasty, and that I could put together with my eyes closed.

If Ju-On can cook, so can you!

And since I wasn’t too keen on the idea of eating banana bread for dinner (only because I ate half of a lemon meringue pie for my supper last night), stir-fry it was.

À la tofu.

This morning, while riding skytrain, I did two things – two things that can be perfectly summed up by just one word:


Holy doodle, it’s a boon and a half that I don’t embarrass easily.

First, I was SO into my crossword that I actually drooled onto my paper.

Or maybe it got on my purse – I’m not sure.

And although it wasn’t a ton of drool, and I desperately tried to keep it in, once I realized that I was leaking from my mouth – alas.

To no avail.

I’m pretty sure the girl sitting to my right was busting a gut for all of Canada, because the seat was vibrating pretty steadily for the next ten minutes.

(The fact that I too was laughing my face off could also have something to do with this.)

I couldn’t look up for the life of me, for fear that I would make eye contact with someone else who had espied my errant behavior because this would have undoubtedly propelled me into the most epic case of the “laughs” ever recorded in the history of the world, from which, I’m sure, I would never have recovered.

Then, about five minutes later (although in my completely cracked mind it seemed like these events happened simultaneously) my umbrella got loose from where it was resting between my knees.

I watched it fall in almost slow motion – although again in real life it was moving at quite a clip.

(This along with its steep angle of trajectory alarmed me.)

It kept tumbling forward, before making contact with the the legs (or you know, bum cheeks) of the man standing in front of me, only to come to rest, wedged in his crotchular area.

This, in the parlance of our times was very, very awkward.

Like, the most ever.


The look he gave me may have taken years off of my life.

Good thing all that laughing just piles them back on.

So there you have it. My Tuesday started out on a high point, hilarity-wise, and will end on an equally stellar note, health and taste-wise.

And knowing M and I – there will be a ton more laughs too.

Let’s get down to business:

The goods.

Chop it!

These colours - in whatever form I find them in - always make me smile.

Wok it!

I really appreciate to no end the number of puns you can create with the word wok.

Sauce it!

Keep it simple. Keep it safe.

Add spinach:

Leaf it up!

But seriously, add more:

Like you mowed the lawn and then made a meal out of the clippings!

For a brilliant, final result of:

Multi-coloured noms! The best kind (but also lemon meringue pie.)

So there you have it folks – tofu stir-fry for the skytrain rider’s soul.

How were your Tuesdays? Anything crazy happen around your parts?

I would really, really love to hear about it.

Ride it out

Dear Person Who Refuses to Sit Next to the Window on Transit:

Good thinking chum. It’s widely known that those who sit next to the window are never given the opportunity to exit the train.  I once found myself stuck in the window seat and ended up riding the line for five weeks straight!  By the end I was fashioning outfits out of day old Metro newspapers, subsisting off of Starbucks dregs and those four or five french fries that always end up in the bottom of fast food bags.  Lucky for me, I managed to drug one of the travellers sitting next to me (I slipped a crushed up packet of fisherman friends into his latte) and before the guardians of all things translink could catch me, I was out of there.

However, I cannot slag off the non-window sitters too much as this (has to be pathological) need is nowhere as bad as the people who smell as though they’ve spent the last month and a half living in the confines of Pete Doherty’s armpit.

Personally, my big transit rule is I never sit in any of the reserved seating, because if I do I always feel like a giant, fraud of an arsehole and am hyper aware of everyone getting on whom is actually deserving of the space.  (Random aside: the first two suggestions for what I’m actually trying to write instead of arsehole are: areole and hawsehole.  Wondering about the definition of hawsehole?  I was too.  It’s a nautical term for a small hole in the hull of a ship through which hawsers may be passed.  TRUTH.)

Also, whoever is behind the remake of The Thing should be sent to Baffin Island for twenty years hard labour.  SACRILEDGE!